


SILVER LINING CLIMBING ON MY DESIRE

by winluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Mutual Pining, Narration Heavy, Non Linear Narrative, motherlode of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: Akira wonders about the organic way of loving a boy like (and unlike) himself.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	SILVER LINING CLIMBING ON MY DESIRE

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [venus in taurus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640703) by [fatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal/pseuds/fatal). 



> hi! i finally tried writing something for one of my favorite rare pairs because i rarely see content for it ahh i hope you like it somewhat? this goes to one of my favorite writers here (ate elo/fatal) we're not close but i love her writing sm :)
> 
> title comes from: r u mine? by arctic monkeys

_“Is that what art is? To be touched thinking_

_what we feel is ours when, in the end, it was_

_someone else, in longing, who finds us?”_

_— Ocean Vuong_

Tobio, let me tell you a secret I have kept for way too long: the sound of your voice calling me baby, with your lips parted and your heart tucked in your throat, is keeping me awake at night. (Bear with me, you are driving me crazy.)

_What does love taste like?_ To Akira, a boy who loves beautiful boys like it’s his lifeline, love tastes like:

Tobio pulls Akira into his arms and Akira sits on Tobio’s lap, his hand on the back of his neck, on the cracked leather driver’s seat of his sister Miwa’s old Toyota. “Tobio,” Akira whispers, needily, his breath fanning against his ear, warm against the side of his neck. “Kiss me, please.” 

From Tobio’s lips, comes the answer, voice soaked in the taste of Seven Stars curling around his pierced tongue: “Baby, you don’t have to tell me twice.” Akira catches a glint in his eyes and the silver of his tongue and kisses him until they are both out of breath, until they go extinct, like flitting stars falling back into place, like supernovas bursting and crawling back to space, like a boy coming back home somewhere beneath the stars. 

Neither of them know what model Miwa-nee-san’s car is. Neither of them cared enough about the year or the license plate to know. Neither of them cared that the windows weren’t tinted and that anyone could so easily see them. All they knew right now, all that they could focus on right now is the feeling of skin against skin, bones atop bones, boy against boy. 

The cracked white leather grazes against Akira’s knees as his legs dangle on either side of Tobio’s hips. He lifts a vacant hand to crack the side window open, his eyes too occupied with the view unraveling in front of him to search for the switch, his mind too dazed, delighted with the thought of being the one to ruin the beautiful boy. 

The moonlight stretches over their heads, illuminating their faces against the shadows of the trees hanging over them, against the headlights of the cars passing by them. Tobio keeps a steady hand _everywhere._ On Akira’s hips. He trains them still as they rub against him when he kisses him quiet. On Akira’s black stocking clad thighs. The nylon is like midnight on his porcelain skin. Tobio kneads his thighs, needs them, needs him. 

Tobio knows too well how to turn Akira into dough, into putty in his hands. On the small of Akira’s back. He has long since memorized the dips of Akira’s back, his spine moving in perfect coordination with his touch like something he had committed to memory. The crushed remnants of the honey stars watch over them tonight. 

_Akira, you feel like a mortal sin,_ Tobio wants to say. _I feel like I am spitting on God’s teeth._ Instead, he says, “Baby, I’m tired. We had a long day. Let’s go home.”

Akira thinks, _Tobio, if this is sinful, then why does this feel like a saving grace?_ Instead, he says, “Okay,” with a certain air of silent reverence. “Let’s do this again.”

“We can do this all you want,” comes Tobio’s reply.

Tobio, let me whisper this in your ear when no one is around us, not even Kindaichi, not even your sister, especially not your mother: I want to watch as you come close to me, wrapping your hands around my hips, enveloping my mouth in your warm breath, eyes closing in on me, your presence always captivating, always immense but never overwhelming, only always welcome. (Baby, I could never get sick of you.)

_What does intimacy mean to you?_ To Akira, a boy who has never let others come too close, intimacy means:

Tobio hums as he boils water on the electric kettle, his elbow propped up against granite. Akira stands across from him, fingers drumming against the countertop. He sighs as Tobio takes too long to make his coffee, takes too long to come to him, takes too long to touch him. He watches Tobio rip open a sachet of Nescafé coffee with his teeth, pouring the granules into his mug that boasts of cherry blossoms in Tokyo, a little tchotchke from Hitoka, a schoolmate from his old high school. He watches as Tobio lifts the mug to his face, letting his eyes flutter closed as he takes a whiff of its light, nearly nutty scent. He watches Tobio, never averting his gaze.

Akira doesn’t have to turn down his offer of coffee because, in the first place, Tobio knows that he doesn’t have to ask. Tobio can always figure him out, learn all of his little oddities, grow accustomed to the rituals he performs everyday. The first he learned is that Akira doesn’t drink coffee or wine. He doesn’t drink beer either, declines the bottles of Sapporo that Tobio brings home as an indulgence after a tedious day filled with stilted conversations and awkward periods of silence that threaten to suffocate him. Akira doesn’t particularly believe in indulging himself. It seems that Akira hasn’t let himself believe in a lot of things these past months.

Akira sits on the marble counter, his eyes half lidded and his legs parted while Tobio stands between them, his sturdy hands gripping his thighs, soft pink tongue poking out slightly only to lick his lips. Akira wishes he would dip it down to his neck, trace the constellation of moles on his skin and feel himself come down to earth. Akira wishes that he could let his casual touches linger, let his hand trail down his arm and turn into memories.

“Tobio.” Akira places a finger to his lips, light, teasingly, achingly slow. He lifts his bright pink shirt by only a centimeter up his thigh to reveal white lace. “Do you like what you see?” He wraps his hands around Tobio’s neck, pulling him closer to him until their faces are so close that they almost touch. “You should try seeing what’s under my shirt.” Tobio’s jaw brushes so briefly, so subtly against him, and his glare, nearly as sharp, something that Akira could cut his fingers on, softens.

Akira wishes he could let him brush his fingers against his jaw, let his hands travel down his neck, let his lips trace patterns on his shoulder blade. Akira wishes that they could touch. Akira wishes that he could let himself find intimacy in this beautiful boy. Akira wishes that he could let himself touch him, let himself come close to him. Akira wishes that he could make himself worthy of touching such a beautiful boy in more ways than this.

Akira’s hands feel so cold against his warm skin that Tobio can feel himself suppress an incoming shiver. “Fuck,” Tobio murmurs against Akira’s lips, his hands sliding down his thigh, deep set eyes darting across his skin, “are you wearing lace?” Akira has never thought his touch could be this gentle. Akira’s mind wanders to things. Things you couldn’t discuss in mixed company. Things you shouldn’t let young children hear. Things you should not be thinking about such a beautiful boy.

Akira wonders what it must be like to have this boy ruin him. He snaps back to reality when the boy finally speaks. “Have you been wearing this all day?” His tone is almost breathless, needy, desperate. Akira wonders what it would be like to knock the wind out of him. Akira wonders what it would be like to hear him, hear these sounds like this in more intimate, more private settings. 

“I wore this especially for you.” Akira bats his lashes at the boy looking up at him, who had the most agonized, the most beautiful expression dawning on his face, and realizes right there that he wanted to kiss him, feel his lips brush against his own, sweeping against his neck. “Tobio, kiss me.” _Kiss me before I go crazy_ , he wants to say. _Kiss me even if I don’t feel like I deserve you._

Akira tugs on the collar of Tobio’s black sleeveless tee. Tobio brushes a lock of his hair behind his ear, before finally leaning in, so slowly, pressing his lips, feeling his nose brush against his. His eyes flutter closed, his lashes feeling like a gentle breeze against his skin. When he pulls away, Akira feels his lips tingle like they are electrified, like he has just eaten spicy mapo tofu. They burn, like he has been kissing fire, licking at its flames, like his heart swelling against the golden cage of his chest, ribs digging. They sting, like heartburn on his tongue, but he wants more. He’ll take what he can get from this beautiful boy, he’ll take what this beautiful boy wants to give him, even if his whole heart isn’t in it.

Tobio, let me divulge a confession, just between you and me: I always feel guilty whenever I lay awake in my creaky bed at night, trying to fall asleep with the bittersweet taste of you on my tongue, and remember all the things I did and all the things I didn’t do. (Baby, let me make it up to you with my hands and my mouth, let me kiss all the pain away to make it all feel better.)

_What does warmth feel like?_ To Akira, a boy who only memorizes but never learns and studies but has never been able to familiarize, warmth feels like:

“Come closer,” Tobio whispers in his ear, wrapping his arms around him, his legs tangled up with his. It feels like a command coming from him and Akira has never felt any happier to comply with all of his needs. “Please.”

Akira lets his hand brush against Tobio’s sweatpants. “Tobio,” he says, eyes hooded, glazed over with desire. “How come you always wear sweats? Can’t a world famous athlete—” _Nationwide,_ Tobio protests, humble as always, _I don’t think we’re that famous._ “—afford to buy more clothes than, like, Adidas sportswear?” 

In all honesty, although he could never admit it, not right to his face at least, Akira likes seeing him like this. Casual. Relaxed. The sweatpants, no matter how many times he wore them, gave him a promise of ease. Lack of restraint. For once, he felt like something familiar, someone Akira has always liked, someone Akira has, perhaps, never stopped loving.

On second thought, maybe Akira could live with seeing the smug smile that follows after telling Tobio he looks good, because he does, he knows he does, anyone with eyes knows he does. “Hmm,” Akira hums against his neck, snuggling in closer to Tobio, “maybe I like you this way, even though you don’t know how to dress.”

“Do too,” Tobio protests, pouting like a child. Akira can’t help but feel a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Akira can’t help but wonder, _how many people has Tobio allowed to see him like this?_ Something bitter sits on his tongue, something shaped like jealousy rests on his hand like a needle threatening to prick his finger.

Akira wonders, his body lodged between the strong arms and long legs of such a beautiful boy, where it all started. Akira wonders where, when he started liking him. He knows he likes him, he’s sure he’s always had:

from the first time he set his eyes on Tobio in Kitagawa Daiichi, all uneven baby bangs and bruised knees and dark blue jacket slung over his shoulders and bright blue eyes threatening to bury him in their gaze;

until Tobio went to Karasuno, all furrowed brows and a brand new, softer range of scowls and glares and a brand new number on his jersey and expressions that don’t seem as kingly as he used to, (whenever Akira remembers what he said and what he did and what they let themselves do, guilt-ridden bile pushes forward from his throat) and he went to Aoba Johsai, where they stood on either sides of the court;

to the all encompassing period of the present, of _now_ , where he’s standing in the V-League—with Hoshiumi Kourai who always stood up high like the whole world is his stage and Ushijima Wakatoshi who had a mesmerizing air of calm quiet to him and many others Akira has forgotten the name of because Tobio, Kageyama _Tobio_ is the only name he has ever known—and Akira has never been more proud, has never felt happier in his life full of snapshots but never of memories, promises but never fulfillments, smiles but never laughs, and his poor heart is thumping in his chest like it’s trying to burst out.

_but where did this come from? where do feelings like these, feelings so strong you feel like you’re drowning, washed over by the tides, come from?_ Akira wonders:

Akira wonders if this, curling up with Tobio into the blankets beneath the ceiling in the comfort of his apartment with the sheet of moonlight creeping above their heads, could be something akin to an act of love;

Akira wonders if this, lying against Tobio’s chest as his hands sweep over his skin and brushing against the most sensitive spots somewhere on his neck while a confession is lodged in the back of his throat, could be something that lovers do, could be something tender, could be something with love and intimacy at its core;

Akira wonders if passion could be anything that you put your heart to, wonders if love can be anything that you can come home to, wonders if home can be anything that you find comfort in. Akira wonders how passion for something turns into love for something, because all of it, trust in yourself and trust in others, collaboration, awakenings in and out of yourself, could lead to love;

Akira wonders how love for someone could turn into intimacy, how love turns into first names, turns into your favorite things, turns into things you can’t live without. Akira wonders how a boy turns into air. Akira wonders how love for such a beautiful boy could lead to finding warmth, finding comfort, finding home in him. Akira wonders if all of this could be something more.

Akira thinks, thinks, thinks, _I will never let this end here._

Tobio, let me tell you something with this stupid, reckless slip of my tongue: I’m trying to learn you the way you know me, because I want to be able to take care of you the way you know how to take care of me, so I can make you feel tender, so I can make you feel warm, so I can make you feel loved, in ways that you deserve. (Baby, I am trying my hardest to deserve you.)

_What is a love language?_ To Akira, a boy who only lets himself feel in spades, this is what a love language is:

Akira hates it when Tobio gets too busy with his serve practices that he forgets to eat his meals. And so, he digs up his mother’s old cookbook. He flips through the yellowed pages, trying to find something he can try out for a test drive. And so, he finally learns how to cook. 

Akira tips the egg into the pan filled with boiling water with one hand, slices fatty beef using a knife from a set given by his mother before he moved out with the other hand, and thanks God for making him ambidextrous. 

Tobio walks into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Akira’s waist, resting his face against Akira’s shoulder, bending down to his ear to whisper, breath hot against his ear, his tongue nipping at his lobe, “What are you doing?” 

Akira wipes the sweat off his face with the back of his sleeve, stirring sliced onions in the skillet. “Gyudon,” he says. He hums as Tobio trails his fingers up and down his waist. Then, sheepishly admits, “I haven’t learned how to make pork curry yet.” He pours the beef and sugar into the mixture. “I haven’t found a good recipe.” _An easy one,_ he thinks. He’s not exactly a gifted cook.

Tobio loosens his grip against Akira’s waist. Then, he cocks his head to the side. “But Akira,” he says, “you don’t even know how to cook. Well. You _hate_ cooking _._ ” Then, he corrects himself again, “You hate doing a lot.”

Akira sighs, exasperated. He turns around and leaves the beef to cook for a while, crossing his arms across his chest. “I learned how to cook. I just hate getting sweaty and tired and burned.” And for good measure, he taps his head and adds a long, drawn out, “Duh.”

“I don’t think watching cooking videos on YouTube counts as cooking lessons.” Tobio lets himself laugh. When he sees Akira pout, even for the thousandth of a second, he lets himself drop down and press his lips against his forehead. “But thank you.” _For everything,_ he wants to say, but not now, it feels too tender.

It’s time for dinner and it’s time for Tobio to taste Akira’s cooking. _They aren’t that bad,_ he thinks. Most of all, he feels flattered. Flattered, that Akira is taking time out of his day to cook him dinner in his apartment. Flattered, that Akira likes-loves-likes him enough to cook for him. Flattered, that Akira lets him take one more step closer into his personal space to close the gap between them. 

Akira watches as Tobio takes a bite of his poached egg before stirring the yolk into the short-grain rice with his chopsticks. Akira watches as Tobio closes his eyes on the first bite, a satisfied smile settling on his lips. Akira watches as Tobio gets some sauce on his face.

Akira wipes the sauce off his cheek with his finger and watches Tobio’s eyes widen, even the slightest bit of a difference, at his touch. “You’re such a messy eater.”

“It’s not my fault you’re such a good cook,” Tobio says. He proceeds to lick his lips, pale pink tongue poking out at the corner, and Akira has never wanted to kiss him more than now. Akira always wants to kiss him, see the warm flush of pink in his cheeks, feel his heart flutter. Akira always wants to tug his fingers across the windswept bangs sweeping across Tobio’s forehead.

And so, Akira learns how to cook. Akira learns how to cook more than instant ramen and soft boiled eggs. Akira learns how to make braised baby potatoes with soy sauce and honey. Akira dances between recipes of different levels of difficulties. Akira dances between the measurements, pores over online recipes. Akira tries to keep up with Tobio’s rhythm, learn him, peel him apart.

Tobio, let me betray myself by murmuring this secret in your ear on a drunken whim: I like you, I really do, not only when your pupils are wide and blown-out and your voice cracks and your legs tremble against my touch but also when you always keep your hands open for me. (Baby, I want you to tell me that I’ll be the only one you’ll ever hold. Indulge me just this once.)

_What does complete trust mean to someone in love?_ To Akira, a boy who travels through the open hearts of men who have their eyes closed, mutual trust means:

_Tobio,_ Akira wonders, _do you think that I deserve to be able to perceive you, be able to hold you, be able to have you? Tell me what I have to do to love you._

Akira thinks of love as a ceremony: filled with the little formalities but also things you find comfort in, filled with expectations but also things you might overlook, filled with a convention, a sacrament, with a mutual worship.

Akira’s love for Tobio is rooted in the little things he does for him because he knows all too well that Tobio isn’t exactly a fan of grand, romantic gestures. 

Akira likes the way Tobio never forgets the things about him, the way he always listens to the things he had only said in passing, the way he always pays attention to the things about his family, the way he always learns about the things not even Kindaichi knows about: 

first, Tobio never forgets to take off his white and gold Onitsuka Tigers, placing it on the shoe rack with the paint chipping off at the corners before coming inside. He isn’t really thinking about culture and traditions and good manners most of the time. Maybe it has a little more to do with not wanting Akira to clean up after him;

second, Tobio lies on the edge of the sofa, making sure Akira takes up the larger portion of the space, clinging onto him to make sure he doesn’t fall. Akira knows he feels uncomfortable like that but Tobio insists that he doesn't mind. Akira doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets him inch closer to him. Instead, he lets himself feel warm in the embrace of a _star_ , hands brushing against another, the dips and grooves of their bodies merging together;

third, Tobio always manages to travel through Akira’s open wounds. He patches them together, sewing them shut, dipping them into a cotton soaked with betadine. Tobio always manages to fit into Akira’s open heart. He kisses him quiet, enveloping him in his warm embrace until he forgets his doubts, touching him with careful hands until he opens himself up to him. Tobio always manages to help Akira find comfort in vulnerability.

_Tobio,_ Akira wonders, _is there love at the center of all of this? Tell me before I go crazy,_ he wants to say. _I’m going insane at the thought of you wanting me like I want you. Tell me even if I don’t deserve to know._

Tobio’s love for Akira is stored in his hands, because he always gives what he can give him. He gives, gives, gives, until there is nothing left of him to give. He gives, because it’s Tobio. He could have given him the world.

Tobio’s love for Akira is rooted in the small ways that he can tell Akira loves him: like the small fraying edge of a pale pink thread; like the way he pulls him close and Akira pulls him even closer; like the way his hands feel like maps and his body an ocean; like the sacred way he prays, his knees lowered to the ground, chants wrapped around his soft pink lips; like the way he lets Tobio love him; like the way he lets Tobio hold him.

Tobio thinks of love as a ritual, thinks of it as a rite of passage: he finds love in routine, he finds love in being accustomed to something, getting used to someone, he finds love in the patterns Akira performs, he finds love in the spells and incantations Akira uses on him (because what else could explain the way Tobio always finds himself wrapped around Akira’s little finger?) He finds love in home, finds love in comfort, home in Akira.

_Akira,_ Tobio thinks, _why do you look at me like that? Why do you look at me like I deserve the whole world?_

Tobio, let me help you understand all of the ways in which I love you: I want you to think— _no,_ I want you to know that all of this, all of me is for you, because I want to let you have me, I want to be able to offer you everything I have so I offer you myself. (Baby, I hope it’s enough.)

_What does comfort mean to you?_ To Akira, a boy who has forgotten what it was like to hold someone in his arms without putting his arms and his mouth and his hands around them, comfort means:

Akira has never been one for letting himself feel too much. He takes three deep breaths, never loses it. He has never been for losing arguments. His father always told him that the one who loses his temper is the one who loses. He has never been for going all out, tiring himself out. He lets himself hold on, then he lets go. He presses the anger back into the palm of his hand, feels himself flowing back to his roots, dissolving into ashes.

Akira watches Kageyama Tobio, through the years, perform the slow, sensual way he lets off steam. 

first, Akira watches Tobio as he pricks his finger on a needle, bruises his knees on the maple wood of gym floors, and he’s all glass boy and glass tears. Cries, at the drop of a hat. Cries, like it’s the end of the world.

second, Akira watches Tobio as glass turns into rock, morphs into crystal lattice. Tobio turns fifteen, learns how to cope with paper cuts and bruised knees, learns how to cope with a broken heart and how to stop tears from flowing. Tobio turns fifteen, his heart into steel.

third, Akira watches as Tobio turns twenty one and has forgotten about repressing. He finds catharsis like a diamond in the rough. Cries more. Releases his anger. There is nothing at stake anymore. He knows they are all on his side, knows they won’t abandon him. There is nothing to be afraid of anymore. He comes spiralling upwards, like a clock ticking backwards. 

But out of all of the ways Tobio lets off steam, this is his favorite one:

“Had a rough day?” Akira hums, putting his hands on the other boy’s shoulders. “Want me to make it better?”

Neither of them are considering Tobio’s muscle aches and joint pain. Akira paints a whole new picture with his hands. Neither of them are thinking about painkillers and tiger balm, pain relief patches and Vicks Vaporub. Neither of them are thinking about _innocent_ full-body massages. Akira shows him relief, brings him pleasure in the dark with his skillful hands.

Tobio doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Come here.” 

Akira inches the clothes off his body like he is on fire. Like they are on fire. They might be, when the gaze of the boy in front of him, eyes waiting expectantly, hands steady, time stopping still, is lighting him up. _It’s okay_ , Akira thinks, _as long as he’ll always be the one holding the lighter._ Pulls off pantyhose by each centimeter like he is performing capital punishment on Tobio. Tugs on the zipper down the side of his miniskirt. He’s wearing all of this for Tobio, then he’s taking it all off for him too. 

And so, Akira undresses in front of Tobio. Bends down in front of him. Steps into hot water, soaks into it like a ritual he has mastered performing. When Tobio is the one that is holding him in the tub, the water is never piping hot, always warm, always cozy, always sensual. The streams of hot water laces into the grooves of their skin, runs down their bodies like something practiced.

Akira has nothing been exemplary in the subtle art of ruining boys. And so, Tobio asks him to ruin him. And so, Akira complies, because he has never been taught by his mother to say no to blessings, to graces. Right in front of his unworthy eyes is a miracle sent down by a god himself, who was he to deny the god’s will?

Warm water against cold skin. “Can I touch you?” Tobio manages to breathe out. Soft lips against rough edges. If we are being honest, Akira would let him touch him all over. “I want you to touch me.” Hands against skin.

Akira carves crescents onto his back with his nails and lets Tobio run his hands across his skin, lets him learn all of the hollows of his body. “Oh, Tobio, what wouldn’t I do for you,” Akira says. Akira lights Tobio up, a flame flickering in the cold of the evening, committing arson like a repeat offender, memorizing him like torn pages.

Tobio, let me remind you, let my voice ring in your ears for days on end, that this is how we first met: you looked at me and I looked at you and our gazes set us on fire beneath the Mariya Takeuchi mix echoing in our ears. (Baby, if I knew back then that it would be you, that all of the love songs would turn into tributes written in your name, then I would have tried to avoid you but who can blame me when you’re so pretty?)

_What does longing feel like?_ To Akira, a boy who has been trying to navigate the art of wanting things versus actually needing them, the deepest longing means:

Akira always watches Tobio, with glistening eyes and a bright smile, in the same wistful way you would look at the stars. Akira always looks at Tobio like he is a star, like he is the moon itself. Kageyama Tobio waxes and wanes through the years, silvery glow soothing Akira. Akira watches Kageyama Tobio through the years:

Akira watches Tobio from the sidelines, watches him toss with total trust and pinpoint accuracy, watches the kingly colors of triumph flash in his eyes. Akira watches as his star spikers strive to further illuminate the ability of their setter, bringing the attention of the whole world to him. Akira watches Tobio, his heart skipping a beat.

Akira watches Tobio as he tries to find him through the crowd, watches his eyes sparkle when he finally spots him. He watches as Tobio’s tight-lipped smile reaches his eyes, the edges crinkling to crescents, looking like the beautiful boy in his dreams. He watches as Tobio, young and beautiful, hair parted down the middle, eyes bright and innocent and _gentle_ , leans in and kisses him until the sun comes down. He watches Tobio flush pink and purple and the deepest shade of red, blooming in his hands like a budding flower, burning in his touch.

Akira watches Tobio at night beneath the feeble light of the moon, its watery glimmer shining above their heads as they intertwine their fingers together. _It’s so easy_ , he thinks, _to miss the beauty of the stars when the moon is sitting next to you._ Tobio brings Akira’s hand to his lips. Akira doesn’t miss the shy smile that settles on his soft pink mouth. Akira’s eyes never leave Tobio. Tobio pulls Akira into his arms in the dark, the flickering lights of Miwa’s car whisking through their faces, diffusing on the pink glitter of Akira’s eyeshadow.

_The night is young and so are we._ Between the liminal spaces and questionable hours of the night, Akira can never grow sick of watching Tobio, being with him as he stands on thresholds, not even when the night has to end. Tobio feels endless and Akira feels immortal.

After dusk, comes silence. Silence washes over the night. It filters through the windows of the car, settling on the leather seats. Akira plugs his phone, plays a melancholy mix of love songs. It’s the type of silence that never feels comfortable, only wistful. It’s the type of silence that never feels lonely, only nostalgic. It’s the type of silence that tells a story that isn’t yours.

Tobio drums his fingers against the armrest. He digs out a piece of tissue in the compartment and hands it to Akira for him to wipe his hands on. “You can give me the anchovies,” he says, pointing with his lips. “I know you don’t like them.”

Akira plucks them out of his pizza, placing them across the edge of his plate before taking a bite. He watches, again, as Tobio puts it in his mouth. He watches the smallest hint of a grimace. “You don’t like them either, do you?”

“I don’t like seeing any food go to waste,” Tobio says. Akira smiles. Tobio reminds him of his grandmother. Tobio reminds him of faith amid the chaos of the world. Tobio reminds him of good things. “It’s getting late,” he adds. “I’ll drive you home so I know you’re safe.”

“You don’t have to drive me around everywhere, you know,” Akira says with a sigh. “Makes me feel bad. It’s like I’m treating you as my personal chauffeur.”

Tobio sighs. “But I _want_ to.” The warm, golden glow of the night washes over them, taking them over.

Tobio, let me tell you something with this stupid, deliberate slip of the tongue: I have never been religious, I have never believed in the existence of a higher being, but maybe there is salvation in this world and it can be found in your lips. (Bear with me, save me from the vengeance of the pantheons, tell them you saw nothing.)

_What does tenderness taste like?_ To Akira, a boy who has never let his feelings conquer over his mind, the tenderness is found in the little things and it tastes like:

Akira traces the veins climbing up Tobio’s hands to his forearms, lets his fingers dig into his neck, offering him the glorious taste of escape. Tobio lets out sounds that are so pretty it makes Akira lose his mind. Akira lets out pretty words that take all of Tobio’s breath away.

Tobio asks for crumbs. Akira presents him with a whole banquet and it all feels ravishing. Tobio asks for mercy. Akira grants him forgiveness and there is no space for him to turn it down.

_Is it really easy to distinguish love from friendship?_ Akira wonders. _On some days, you could so easily mistake a friend’s lingering glances for tenderness._

Tobio slings Akira’s duffel bag over his shoulders. “It’s okay,” he says when Akira protests. “It isn’t that heavy.” 

Akira sighs and crosses his arms around his chest. “Do what you want,” he says. “There’s no stopping you.” It’s half-hearted. It’s teasing. A faint smile tugs at his lips.

Tobio’s eyes crinkle at the corners again. He produces a bag of Werther’s hard caramel candies. “For you,” he says. “Bought it on the way here.” 

“Thank you,” Akira says. He rips it open and hands one to Tobio. He stuffs one hand down his pocket. “Want to listen to some music?” 

When Tobio nods, he offers him the other earbud. They bump heads together. Tobio lets out something shaped like a giggle. Akira blinks at him. Then he lets himself laugh. “That is so stupid,” he says. A sweet, slow song echoes through their ears.

And so, Akira trains his eyes to squint harder until his vision goes blurry. Strains his ears to catch the distant call of a boy in need. Looks out for the things that even slightly resemble something more like love. Looks for tenderness in the little things. Looks for light, for love.

_Then again,_ Akira thinks, _if this isn’t love, then why would you let your glances linger?_

Tobio, let me whisper this in your ear when no one is around, not even strangers in the club, not even the people you have always looked up to, especially not people who don’t understand us: I want to be the one to redefine you, steer away from the assertive sense of unfamiliarity, love you in all the languages that I know. (Baby, didn’t you know that I listen to your voice in our classes then listen to your body after school?)

_What does gratitude mean to you?_ To Akira, a boy who always knows what he’s looking for, gratitude means:

The thought comes to Akira’s mind somewhere during the cold winter of modern-traditional Miyagi that always feels like home, _I think I want you, Tobio._

Akira learns (to love) Tobio through the years. 

He learns to love the way his forehead wrinkles when he feels displeased with something, which is so often that Akira has already memorized the way his face falls and the feeling he gets in his chest after seeing him.

He learns to love the way he eats his meals, like they are something to be treasured. He eats in a way like a ritual that has love, only love at the center. He breaks his chopsticks with sure, gentle hands. He puts it into his mouth and washes it down with a drink of water. 

He learns to love the sweet, gentle way the autumn breeze scatters through his hair. The wind feels so cold against Tobio’s warm skin, reminiscent of nights spent in front of fireplaces with sugar cookies and evenings spent with family at the dinner table with bowls of natto and okonomiyaki and pork curry, everything he likes.

He learns to love the pleasant smell of milk and honey body wash that clings to his skin. Tobio always smells like guileless innocence. Tobio always smells like baby powder. Tobio always smells like velvet, always smells like something you could dive heart first, headlong into.

He learns to love the way his tongue feels against the skin of his thighs that are hidden under Tobio’s shirt. He learns to love the smooth, light way Tobio drags his tongue, sweeps his hands, brushes his lips across the edges of his body. He learns to love his bruised knees, his chapped lips, his scorched fingertips. He learns to love everything Tobio loves about him, even the ones he cannot even begin to fathom.

He learns to love the way he breaks him apart. Akira feels like he is ripping apart at the seams, fraying at the edges. He feels like the light of the moon is sweeping across his cheekbones and then, bursting out of him. He learns to love the way Tobio ruins him with his voice that goes so _low_ it could take him six feet underground.

He learns to love the way he spins his emotions into a starburst, into a picture, into a constellation. He frowns so hard that his face should be painted. He smiles and Akira feels satisfied, feels melancholy, feels everything all at once. He learns to love the little discrepancies, all of the ways Tobio sends him into the chaos of cosmos.

The epiphany comes to Akira’s mind sometime during the free-falling spring of sakura-filled Tokyo that always feels like home, _I know I love you, Tobio._

and finally:

Tobio, let me tell you a secret I have kept for way too long: I know I love you because I have never been more so sure of anything in my life than the fact that I have to have you or I might perish. (Bear with me, for I have taken so long.)

_What do miracles taste like?_ To Akira, a boy who has never been a firm believer in religions or miracles or sciences or little else except the stars that brought him to the boy made of glass, a miracle tastes like:

Akira wonders, amid the timid yet still calculating gaze of a boy he has always found so agonizingly beautiful; between the wide arms and broad shoulders of a star in front of his eyes; in spite of all that he is and all that he isn’t; _because_ of all he is and isn’t, how it all started. 

He knows that he likes Tobio in all his forms: Tobio in junior high school with his bangs barely hanging over his forehead, Kageyama Tobio on the dotted line and number 20 on the roster, star setter for the Schweiden Adlers, baby on his holy tongue, he knows he does:

from the first time he laid under the sheets with him. you know, the sheets that carry the lingering scent of lavender and sandalwood and him, something so close to home that you can’t help but immerse yourself in it;

until they were head over heels in love, until they were over the moon in bliss, until they were spinning and spinning and spinning and they couldn’t stop, until they couldn’t do anything but stare at each other with their eyes glossed over with fascination, until everyday;

to the all encompassing period of the present, to _now_ , when Akira is wearing his boyfriend’s jersey that goes past his thighs, when his neck and shoulder blade and _everywhere_ is filled with bruises Tobio left to mark him, when the rain pours outside their window and they do nothing but lie around and find each other in the dark, explore each other like maps leading to nowhere.

Akira thinks— _no,_ he knows, knows, knows: _I will never let this end here. We are just getting started._

Akira wonders about the organic way of loving a boy like (and unlike) himself: his bright eyes that always made him look like he just finished crying, so bright and so blue that they always gave off the impression of youthful innocence until he flashed you his signature scowl when you missed one of his sets; his calloused hands laced with traces of moonlight in his veins and nails that carve crescents unto his skin; the sweet, nostalgic taste of milk and liquor and honey on his lips.

Akira finds different things in Tobio: a new sparkle in his eyes whenever he looks at Akira; hands that have grown more careful, more graceful when he is touching no other than Akira; his lips that always kiss Akira with a careful reverence. Akira finds different things, brand new things, improved things that were not there before and grows to love him, even more than before. 

Akira looks at Tobio and feels like he is coming back to earth, feels something in his heart that you cannot put a name to, feels something that you can’t extinguish.

_Akira,_ Tobio thinks, _I want you to take me home._

_Tobio,_ Akira thinks, _I want you to watch me as I watch you, want me as I need you, feel me as I feel you, need me as I need you, love me as I love you._


End file.
